


Mosaic of Battles

by TeaWithMeAtThree



Category: Hannibal (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: America, Cannibalism, F/M, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, MACUSA, Murder Husbands, POV Hermione Granger, PTSD Hermione, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bookshops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8808919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaWithMeAtThree/pseuds/TeaWithMeAtThree
Summary: Haunted by her experiences of the war, Hermione visits Hannibal for treatment of her PTSD. She finds herself in a country of mysterious psychiatrists, broken profilers, kind friends, dusty bookshops… and serial killers.





	1. Adjusting to the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> All rights to NBC for their TV Show of "Hannibal", and Thomas Harris for his creation of the character. Also to J.K. Rowling for "Harry Potter", which will never stop inspiring me to read and write more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: I have never suffered from PTSD and cannot profess to understand what it must be like. Whilst I have researched the disorder and tried to be considerate, I truly apologise if my portrayal causes upset, or if there are problems with it.

_'Just like our eyes, our hearts have a way of adjusting to the dark'_  - Adam Stanley

* * *

Wrapped in an enchanted brown coat with brass buttons, Hermione was unaffected by the cold. Icy winds swirled around her, rustling the cornfields she walked across, but still she never faltered. She was merely a shadow in the sunset - a solitary figure on an evening walk. Although currently aimless, this walk had a destination. (Purpose was evident in the occasional glances to her watch.) Once the minute hand showed ten to six, Hermione finally stopped.

To any animal watching, the curls of atmosphere in her disappearance could easily have been mistook for the blistering winds around. Apparation carried her to the alleyway of a Muggle neighbourhood. For a moment Hermione was mute, braced against a brick wall and looking about her for any danger as she came to her senses. However, for all her worrying, there was no threat. No dark wizards hiding in the shadows. No crackles of spells cursing someone to their grave.

Engines, chattering, horns and footsteps; that was all there was to be heard. That was what she focussed on, breathing in tune with the mechanical beat for a moment. Soon she was able to remove the hand gripping her wand. After a shaking sigh, shuffle of her scarf and tug on her coat lapels, Hermione forced her hands into her pockets and joined the business of the street. In this city, she was no longer a solitary figure, but one of many human forms hurrying about.

Hermione's destination was a grand house two streets down. It was set back from the road, allowing a short pathway through a prim and proper garden to the front door. Opening it revealed a waiting room of modest size. Once the door was shut, locking the room in a bubble of sudden silence, Hermione took in every feature of her surroundings. Only then could she move to sit down, choosing the seat with the best vantage points for all entry and exit routes around her. Indeed, living through a period of conflict had left its mark on Hermione.

"Miss Granger?" A well-dressed man stood at the now open door that led into an office. His arrival was in tune with the bells of a clock deeper inside the house. Silvery wisps of hair floated in a smooth arrangement, slightly reminding Hermione of Dumbledore. It had the same ethereal quality.  
"Dr Lecter," she returned, rising to shake his offered hand and follow him into the room.  
Hannibal Lecter was a notorious muggle psychiatrist (a fact known if one was present in certain psychological circles). It was surprising the Ministry were prepared fund Hermione's appointments with him. Although pressured following the invasive media coverage of Hermione's condition, they were under no obligation to fund therapy, particularly at the premium price Dr Lecter was charging. However, it seemed they were desperate to reduce public scrutiny, and funding treatment for  _'the brightest, broken witch of the war'_  was their way of an apology. Besides, Muggle currency was worth very little to them. Indeed, the problem of her choice was more prominently that he was a  _muggle_.

Dr Lecter's office was quite unlike magical psychiatry practices Hermione had visited. The room reflected his unique approach, quite different to anything else advertised. His differences were not necessarily noticeable, but there was a twist to his business cards - an unusual tone, as it were - that had contributed in compelling Hermione to consider him.  
"I trust your journey was safe?" Hermione nodded. "I am glad. Please, take a seat," he prompted. Again, Hermione examined the room, taking in every feature, before electing to sit in the chair clearly designated for her. Although not ideal in its view, the leather seat gave her a fair view of the psychiatrist, and she forced herself to trust that he would protect her from anything that came up from behind.

"You are not a fan of my decor?"  
"I have nothing against it," corrected Hermione, "just... I find I must make sure I know a room before I am seated in it."  
"Am I correct in assuming you would prefer it if your seat had its back to the wall?"  
"You would not be wrong," Hermione confided. "Though I know I must trust you. This is the first step." Dr Lecter hummed at Hermione's reluctant reasoning and moved to sit in the seat opposite her.  
"Is that why you left your previous psychiatrists? As a result of a break in trust?"  
"Quite so," confirmed Hermione.

The decision to try Muggle therapy may seem an unusual choice, since Hermione would be unable to speak freely of the Wizarding World. However, it was his ignorance that she so desperately desired. There wasn't a single witch or wizard who did not know Hermione's name. It resulted from growing up as the best friend of Harry Potter. It came from gaining a prestigious position in the Ministry, then losing it after a series of very public breakdowns. It was caused by the following months where her name was plastered on every newspaper stand, details of Hermione's state of mind draped across the front page.

That was the beauty of the Muggle world though - she was unknown. She could be like any other patient.

"How do you feel," asked Dr Lecter, "right now, in this moment?" Hermione closed her eyes and thought carefully on an answer. It would be easy to describe everything she commonly felt – from fear and numbness to overwhelming anger and despair. In this instance, though, she decided to explain the feeling she dwelled on most of all.  
"Followed," Hermione answered. It was not really emotion, as he may've anticipated, but it was a true reflection of what buzzed inside her mind. "There is always a sensed presence that accompanies me." Hermione scratched at her jaw. "It makes me paranoid. Restless."  
"Is there more to the presence than just a feeling? Do they bear a form?"  
"Not as such. They may resemble one person, or many. Sometimes it is a friend, and sometimes an enemy. Heavy over me, breathing on my neck. Every whistle in the wind is their movement, and every touch their hand. I try to ignore, but best I try it never leaves. Though it may calm itself, it is never truly gone. I fear I shall never be free."

Hermione looked down to her hands and held them together. It was like holding someone in reassurance.  
"I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder."  
"Have you been previously diagnosed?" She shook her head. Wizarding psychology did not share disorders with Muggle classification systems.  
"I've read books on the disorder though. I fit the symptoms - DSM5 or ICD10 - I'm in tune with each definition." Hannibal nodded. Alike any doctor, Hermione was certain he wouldn't be too happy about someone making their own diagnosis, and thought he would probably rather see for himself.  
"I... It started about six months after I finished school." Hermione closed her eyes. "It was a boarding school. I went there from the age of eleven onwards, but bad things progressively became more regular."  
"Are these experiences you wish to discuss?"  
"No." Hermione's breath was short and heart beating. Her eyes flickered open, and the relief at seeing Hannibal in front of her rather than a replay of those years was evident. However, the beating of her heart as it did on those nights – the nights she ran, the nights she battled. Every pulse was a reference to that. "I don't think I can. Not yet." This was accepted, and Hannibal rose from his chair to collect an envelope from his desk. His poise and posture was immaculate even in that simple task. Hermione watched him, trying to steady her breathing.

"Are you familiar with psychotherapy, Hermione?" asked Hannibal upon return.  
"I've read about it." She rubbed at her forehead, wiping the threat of sweat, and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "It's a talking therapy originating from Freud. Always been a bit sceptical of it though."  
"Freud was of the opinion that trauma is repressed in the unconscious mind, and utilised various techniques in an attempt to bring it to the conscious mind."  
"I don't think I've repressed my traumas, Doctor Lecter," said Hermione softly, "they are certainly present in my thoughts."  
"There's no need to worry - that is not the purpose of these cards." Hannibal cleanly removed the contents of the envelope onto the table, and presented the neat pile to Hermione.  
"Rorschach ink blots," she observed.  
"Indeed. All I ask is that you say the first image you see, no matter how unusual or embarrassing it may be." Hermione looked to him in compliance, quite willing and prepared to do the task. She considered it a Muggle version of reading tea leaves, and far more reliable at predicting than anything inferred during Divination lessons.

Unfortunately, all the peace just gathered was immediately destroyed on a glance at the first card. It seemed Hermione was destined to see terror in everything, even an inkblot.  
"A building collapsing. It's like the ceiling is pulling it down." The blot seemed to twist and curl, pulling down and in.  
"And this one?" Hannibal asked, presenting the next card. Hermione traced a finger over the twisting and curling shape. Her fingertip shook on the edge of the black shape.  
"A moth," she began, "with shattered wings, as if they were made of glass."  
"How about... this?" he asked, selecting another.  
"A wolf devouring it's prey."

A wolf devouring  _his_  prey. Her words flickered like damaged lights, and stopped as her room turned to black. Her eyes shut, willing the images to leave, but was unable to stop them as they flooded in. Around her roared the thunder of a war, with crashes and screams and curses. She saw black then red then green as spells flew by.  
"No, please," cried Hermione, grabbing at her hair and curling inwards.

_Lavender's body lay abandoned in the corridor. Her clothes were torn, the vicious scratches of an animal visible on the skin below. Eyes empty, mouth dry, lips purple and neck red. Hogwarts seemed to go still, whirring around her like a tornado whilst she stood in the calm centre. As she stepped closer, the smell of blood twisted upwards and pushed Hermione back again. She wanted to go to Lavender, to hold her... But she couldn't. She couldn't even look anymore. Hermione turned and ran away, back to the heat of battle and anonymous bodies. Yet, with each step she took, Lavender followed. Hermione's sensed presence._

The body flickered behind her, away to her peripheral vision. Although it hurt to look Hermione kept her eyes open and fixed on the white light of the window. When the red and green faded and the screams muffled into distant sounds, Hermione looked back to Dr Lecter. As reality smudged together enough to offer clarity, she realised he was watching her intently… and, for a profession that revolved around emotions, he was notably stoic. Even now, he wore the same simple expression. It was a tightly controlled nonchalance that both calmed Hermione and made her uneasy. Dr Lecter did not speak, and barely moved – it was almost catatonic, and that in itself unnerved her greatly.

"My past," stuttered Hermione, coughing to clear her throat, "is always with me. I cannot escape it." She waited a moment, enough for the second hand on the clock to move twice. "If none of it had happened, would I still be as I am?" She glanced down to finger her fraying scarf. "Have I lost myself to it?" Dr Lecter broke his silence then, shuffling back to sit comfortably in his chair.  
"Do you consider yourself to be lost?"  
"I don't feel the same. I never feel content, like I did when I was younger."  
"Never?" he questioned. Hermione flinched and glanced down to her boots.  
"I cannot be alone. The door is always open. Though occasionally I can feel comfortable with my companions. Maybe that is my new version of satisfaction." They made eye contact.  
"We shall have to endeavour on emptying the room sometimes then."  
"That'd be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must note that the definition of 'ethereal' is 'extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world' and I believe that is a fabulous description of Hannibal's hair.


	2. Who Could Not Be Happy?

_'With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?'_ \- Oscar Wilde

* * *

Hermione's move to the USA was the outcome of a desire to escape. When Neville and Luna had offered their spare room for her to stay in for a few months, Hermione had gladly agreed. She had joined them in their remarkable, cerulean house - a strikingly English building perched in an American landscape of fields, forests and lakes. Hermione thought it bared a fair resemblance to Luna's old house.

On the wooden decking at the front was a line of welly boots, and signs warning of "dirigible plums" and "Tommy's flowers". Dark, cottage windows were slotted at random points about the blue rendering, and clusters of herbs and flowers grew from the scattered window boxes. Besides the green front door was a homemade wind chime that failed to hide the sounds of a dog barking inside.

"Nellie," Hermione greeted as she struggled through the door and locked it behind her. She knelt down to ruffle the terrier's fur. Nellie barked excitedly and near dragged Hermione further into the house. She followed her into the kitchen which was glowing both from the orange candles and woman at the stove.  
"Hi Luna."  
"Hello Hermione," greeted Luna lightly. Hermione walked over and peered into the pan.  
"How have you been?" she asked.  
"Quite well. Tommy has discovered a new species of gnome, but I am yet to see them. I'm certain they're hiding from me just to discredit him."  
"That's 'cause they invible if they want," explained the toddler, who was sat colouring at the table.  
"Invisible," translated Hermione.

"And you? How was Dr Lecter?"  
"He was stable," she answered. Luna gave a small smile.  
"He's not a particularly open man, Freddie warned me, but you'll find he is incredibly wise."  
"Intellectual: yes," Hermione agreed. Before the conversation about her session could develop, she asked-  
"Where is Neville?"  
"Oh, he's just out picking some vegetables. We'll have to check him for tempee bites if he takes much longer - they'll smell he's there in this amount of time."  
"He didn't get any last night," reasoned Hermione.  
"Yesterday he had been frying onions. Tempees can't stand that, it has such a strong scent. It's no wonder he returned unscathed."  
"I'll go help him. Four hands are quicker than two."

Shrugging on her dirtier coat and clambering into a pair of wellies, Hermione stepped through the kitchen patio doors. Neville's stooped form was illuminated by the row of enchanted fairy lights that were strung tightly about the fence enclosing the vegetable plot.  
"Hermione!" he greeted, providing her a wide, genuine grin.  
"How are you, Neville?" she asked, lifting the rope of the picket gate to enter the allotment.  
"Muddy and tired," he answered, revealing the dark stains he had accumulated on his hands and knees. "I shall have to hide these jeans from Luna - I'm always getting them messy, and I don't want to bother her with more housework."  
"I'm sure Luna's expecting them, Neville," Hermione reminded. He looked thoughtfully to the kitchen window then leant back down to the carrots he was midway through uncovering.  
"I sometimes forget how well she knows me. I forget we're married, even. That we have Tommy."

Hermione sniffed in humour before walking around him to get to the teepee of bamboo poles which possessed a sprawling population of beans. The pair continued at their chore in companionate silence. Such moments of content quietness are, in Hermione's opinion, one of the most beautiful things to experience. They're on her list, along with genuine smiles and unexpected sunsets. For a little while, she even managed to forget about watching out for figures in the yard, finding her stresses and anxieties were greatly relieved in her task.

Afterwards, as they were readying themselves to head back inside, Neville continued his musings.  
"I have always been so awfully forgetful. Would've passed all my Newts if I could actually remember what I have read."  
"Forgetting is an unusual thing," recited Hermione. "Longed for by some, and fought against by others." Hermione was quiet, following Neville as he unlocked the gate. "There are so many memories I wish I could lose-"  
"- and yet we both wish for our parents' memories to return," finished Neville. It was not an unfamiliar conversation.

"Come," encouraged Hermione, leading them both towards the house. As they reached the veranda, Neville paused to look out at the field and line of trees beyond their plot. Even as the environment moved - trees rustled, corn shook and birds hooted - everything felt rather still. Nature tranquil under it's navy shadow.

"I like the night," he reflected, "It's more than a period of time, it's another place. It's different from where we are during the day."  
"We're different from who are during the day," contributed Hermione, "little more hidden, little less seen."  
"When life is most like a dream." Both knew this was not true. Dreams were rarely so peaceful, and every sleep brought them nightmares... but it was a warm concept they pretended to relate to, if just for a moment.  
"I want to escape in the shadows." Hermione pointed out to the trees on the horizon. "But I find I'm always worrying about what is there with me. I cannot be alone in that darkness."  
"For now, you are with me," responded Neville, taking her hand and pulling her closer so their arms bumped together. Hermione rested her head on Neville's shoulder, and he leant his head on hers.

* * *

 "Allie Barba Maca Paca Mee Laaa," sang Tommy, pushing the beans across his plate and crashing them into the mashed potato with a squeal. Hermione rested her head in her hands as she watched his antics. The sound of Tommy's parents discussing some work in the office could be faintly heard, and it contributed to the homely collection of sounds Hermione was surrounded by.  
"Mioneee."  
"Yes, Tommy?"  
"Where's Daddy?"  
"In the office."  
"Where's Mummy?"  
"In the office, with Daddy. Come now, let's eat some-"  
"Where's your Daddy?"  
"My Dad?"  
"Mione's Daddy," he confirmed with a nod.  
"In Australia."  
"When we will see Mione's Daddy?"  
"Not for a long time, Tommy."

He picked up another bean and pushed it into the potato with his finger.  
"Mione's Daddy dead?"  
"No, just in Aust-"  
"Then why can we no see him?" Tommy whined. Nellie barked. In the crescendo of noise, Tommy threw his fork to the floor with a clatter, and began to cry when he realised he couldn't pick it up.  
"Tommy," Hermione scolded, frowning at his misery. However, when she tried to move over to reach it for him, she found her legs gave way beneath her. Falling abruptly back to the chair, Hermione nursed her bumped leg blindly beneath the table.

"Luna," she called. Looking around, the room had begun to blur. Colours colliding and flashing to black like a warning sign.  
Her pulse quickened and tears sprung down her cheeks. Beside Hermione sat her father, his voice slow and familiar.

 _"I think we'd know if we had a daughter." Hermione coughed a_ _sob._  
_"I'm sorry, love, but I don't think we can help you."_  
 _"Come, now, let us make you a cup of tea." Hermione allowed herself to be pulled into the dining room by her mother, and sat down at the table._  
 _"Milk? Sugar?" called her father._  
 _"Just milk," she returned, stuttering on the words and turning her face down to the table, begging the tears to stop. Her father could not remember how she took her tea. That managed to hurt her far more than she would've thought._  
 _All Hermione wished was to be able to look up and see the familiar face of her mother watching her, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. However, if she looked up now, she would see eyes empty of recognition, and emotions of pity and worry. There'd be no motherly concern to cling to... So Hermione didn't look up._  
 _"There you go," murmured her father a few minutes later, pushing the mug to her._  
 _"Thank you," she whispered, allowing herself to turn her attention away from the table._  
  
There was an arm around her shoulder, and the sound of a gentle humming. It was a lullaby Luna would sing Tommy at night when he was restless. Now she held Hermione like she did him, soothing her to peace again.  
"I'm sorry." The shy words slipped from Hermione's lips. She opened her eyes and turned to face Luna. Pale skin and fair hair slowly became more defined in her vision, and things became clear, faded from the features of her father to that of her friend.

"You're not at fault," Luna answered. "You know that if I could remove everything you've been through, I would. I cannot. But I will sit with you through it all. We will always be here, me and Neville, and you should never, ever feel sorry. Helping you is something that... It has brought you security, and done the same for us. There's trust and there's hope. There's the past and the future."  
"But Tommy..."  
"You are the best unofficial Aunt Tommy could wish for."  
"You really mean that?"  
"We will always do what is best for Tommy. That is you, mental state and all." Hermione smiled at Luna's lax tone. She was usually so dainty in speech, but there were many occasions that Hermione had witnessed another side to her. Still kind and caring, but a bit more forwardness, reminding her of Ginny.  
"I'll never be able to thank you enough for this."  
"You don't need to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research into shades of blue, so I could perfectly describe the colour of Neville and Luna's house, has taught me two ways by which you might describe a cloudless sky: "azure" if the sky is bright blue or "cerulean" if it is deep blue.
> 
> Also... I invented Tempees. I picture them as translucent Cornish Pixies that nip you like mosquitoes.


	3. A Beast, an Angel and a Madman

_'I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me'_  - Dylan Thomas

* * *

In her appointments with Dr Lecter, Hermione would describe her week, and the troubles she'd had. His subtle focus had been to try and encourage more information from her. When Hermione had refused to give more than a simple overview, he attempted various techniques that would help her speak more openly. Something he encouraged was the pursuit of activities that made her relax. One was, unsurprisingly, studying. It was a reminder of the past, yes, but only of times when it had been more normal. There were a few subjects it would be possible to tell Dr Lecter about, and so she explained to him some of her knowledge on Ancient Runes.

"An unusual subject choice," he remarked.  
"I went to a rather unique school," explained Hermione. "It is just like learning another language. The symbols are easy to pick up and, when you are familiar with them, are fairly logical."  
"Could you show some to me?" Following that session, Hermione began to teach Dr Lecter a few new runes each week. It was true that it helped her relax, and she found that - over the proceeding month - she trusted him enough to begin telling him more about her past. He learnt details such as her parents loss of memory, or how she was currently living with friends.

"Do you have a job?" asked Dr Lecter, in one such session.  
"I did in England, but… It all went horribly wrong. It was a rather prominent government position, and so held a lot of responsibility. The work was stressful and soon I really wasn't coping. There were many incidents… A few rather public events… It became known that I could no longer work, and I was dismissed from my position."  
"How long has it been since that job."  
"Perhaps nine months? I lived about half a year in England without a job - there was financial support I was receiving, so I did not need one for money."  
"Have you considered finding employment here, in America?"  
"No," confessed Hermione.  
"There are a few positions I have in mind." Dr Lecter produced what was evidently prior research from his desk. "These are all quite peaceful professions, and should be suitable, should you feel so inclined." Somewhere calm, where she did not have to deal with how every incantation put her on edge, in fear of it being a spell against her. Somewhere she could learn the place and the people, and have time to familiarise with any strangers before having to interact with them. Hermione flicked through the pages, but stopped at one that caught her attention: a bookshop.

* * *

The quaint store was perched on a popular high street, though it was arranged that Hermione should only work on weekdays, so she found it never to be too busy. The elderly man who owned the shop - Mr Jones - found Hermione's arrival most convenient, and she fit his requirement of someone to run the shop in the place of his late wife.

It was a spindly place with cracked white paint and a large shop window laden with towers of hardbacks. Every wall was full of books; It reminded her of Ollivanders. Deeper inside, one would find bookcases illuminated by brass wall lights and a magnificent chandelier (which Hermione had transfigured from a plastic fitting on her first day. Mr Jones had simply nodded at the change. He was unusually pliant.) It gave the entire store a quirky, grand feeling.

One morning, a short man with brown curls and a plaid shirt entered the store. He had paused at the door then, seemingly decided on entering, walked through with purpose.  
"Can I help you?" asked Hermione from her perch behind the counter. Looking him over, she didn't spot any feature of immediate concern so loosened her grip on her wand. As he spoke, the man decided to focus on the smudges of dust on the sleeves of her crimson jumper.  
"Will Graham," he introduced. "I am told you are an expert on runes." Hermione blinked and, for a moment, forgot to breathe. His hair danced when he glanced up to her face and saw her alarm. "I'm sorry, I just - Hannibal said you're brilliant at it, but..." His eyes drifted back to her shoulder and the books behind her.  
"Hannibal?" Hermione questioned. She was just relieved he was apparently a muggle. The wand was released completely, and hand settled in her lap.  
"Dr Lecter," he explained. "Though don't think that this some kind of breach of confidentiality. It's just, he had some patterns on his desk - runic - and said they were from the patient before me. That she was an expert, and was teaching him about them."  
"So you figured out who I was and hunted me down?" finished Hermione.  
"Hannibal doesn't pay compliments lightly." He looked up to her again, and took a step forwards. "I figured you must be very good." Hermione watched the man fumble with his glasses, and over what to say. He clearly did not enjoy conversation with new people.

"I can't teach you now though - I'm at work..."  
"No, I don't need you to teach me," interrupted Will, "I need you to tell me what this means." He withdrew a file of photographs from his bag and placed it on the desk in front of her.  
"FBI..." Hermione observed, pointing to a label on the wallet he held.  
"Sort of," Will muttered, "but I'm not really. So I take the liberty of sharing my knowledge with those trustworthy, who can help."  
"You trust me?" It was the last thing Hermione expected to hear. Will repositioned the photo on the desk as he explained-  
"I'm good at reading people. I can see what you're like in a glance."  
"What do you see in me then? If I am so trustworthy."  
"I can see you are definitely not the killer we're looking for."  
"What can you see about me, though?"  
"You're lonely, yet not really alone. You miss something, but what you miss is surrounded by pain. You are hurt by your past… Trauma..." Hermione frowned but it soon turned into a smile.  
"I feel like I've met Sherlock Holmes," she told him. Will blinked in gratitude of the (sort of) compliment and returned to the photograph.

"Look - here - these markings." He pointed at the engravings in the image. "Can you translate them?"  
"Oh," she muttered, "it simply says 'lost'. But the form is wrong. They're writing with an unsteady hand. It should be much smoother and pulled out." Will was deep in thought.  
"Is that all?" she asked carefully. Will glanced up.  
"This as well," he responded. Hermione found the style similar to the previous, except this time it spelt 'found'.  
"They were searching for something, and found it in their victim."  
"It would seem so," agreed Hermione. "What happened, if I may ask?"  
"We have a killer who feels helpless, yet powerful in this murder."  
"What happened to the victim, I mean."  
"Oh. It was an elderly lady who was taken from her home, murdered, and her head displayed."  
"Displayed?"  
"In a bowl. A fish bowl." In a twisted way, Hermione found humour at this. To be frank, she was just relieved her pulse remained steady and eyes dry.  
"A fish bowl?" she repeated. Will raised an eyebrow and glanced to her as she struggled to keep the smile off her face.

"That is the muted amusement Hannibal displays when I tell him of such crimes. Of course, he's far more covert."  
"I... I don't even know why I find it funny. It's like that Outnumbered episode with the funeral." Will looked confused. "English TV... Sorry."  
"Oh, no, I'm sure I wouldn't know it even if it was American." replied Will quickly, hand pushing at his forehead. He began tidying the photos away. "Your amusement is not unusual. Laughter can reduce stress, so it was likely a near innate response to keep you calm."  
"Probably." Hermione scratched at her head briefly and pulled a curl behind her ear. "You're sure you don't want a book on runes, in case there are more?"  
"I believe it'd be much quicker for me to just come to you." He slung his bag over his shoulder. "Thank you."  
"Glad I could help, Will." With that, he left. The bell tinkled in his wake.

* * *

"A childish symbol," Dr Lecter commented.  
"I thought so too," replied Hermione, "if one wishes for an image of forgetting, there are far more elaborate examples."  
"What would you choose?" Hermione ran her finger along the seam of the chair as she thought.  
"There are lots of equally simple images - ribbons tied around fingers," or remembrals, she added in thought. "If I were to do something profound though - something suitable for such a morbid display of emotion - I believe I would choose to reflect on death itself. How, in losing our bodily form, many believe we find something else. I would raise the victim's head above their body, showing they have moved on."  
"Where, specifically, have they transitioned?"  
"Into something new. A ghost, perhaps. Many would say to Heaven, or that they have been reincarnated. Transitioning to a new existence, and forgetting the old one. I could encorporate that - perhaps placing a bird flying from their scalp, moving onwards and upwards." There was a momentous silence as both thought on this image.

"If you had this killer's intentions, what image would you go with?" Hermione asked. Dr Lecter answered immediately-  
"The seventh chasm of Dante's inferno."  
"I do not know it," remarked Hermione.  
"It is the residence of Thieves. As they stole from others in life, it is suitable that their body is taken from them. They are forever stealing one another's forms; a restless eternity of displacement."  
"In losing their body, they lose who they are. It is a loop of losing and finding themselves."  
"In a way."  
"And how could you possibly show that in the scene you create?" asked Hermione incredulously.  
"With remarkable creativity," and, for once, the Doctor was smiling. "A circle of bodies, never ending. A human centipede." At his words, Hermione grimaced and shook herself.  
"What a dreadfully macabre crime scene."  
"A brutal reality - according to Dante, at least." Hermione looked down and found her hands trembling.

"These descriptions are not unfamiliar to you," observed Dr Lecter.  
"I've witnessed death," said Hermione calmly. "Torture, grief and tyranny." She stopped talking. Gently, he asked-  
"Of what nature?" for Hermione was yet to reveal such experiences.  
"Dissimilar to that I have encountered in America. That is why I moved here - well, it is one reason."  
"You were fond of Britain," he reflected.  _She was more than fond. That is her home. All the people she loves, who love her… loved her._  Hermione felt the crack in her secrets chip a little more, and was afraid that soon her defences would break and she would tell him everything, magic or muggle.

"Have you ever told anyone of your experiences?" asked Dr Lecter.  
"There are people who know. Friends who were with me... But I have never truly spoken to anyone about it. Told them exactly what happened."  
"Your friends-"  
"-wanted to forget about it. Conversation on what happened was nearly always avoided."  
"If I asked, would you tell me?" Hannibal inquired.  
"I'm unsure whether I can. Physically or politically: if it is safe and legal for me to do so."  
"Would you like another copy of our doctor-patient confidentiality agreement? It might reassure you."  
"If that's alright?"  
"Of course." As Dr Lecter retrieved the document and photocopied it, Hermione continued talking.  
"I'm sorry. This feels like I'm - not trusting you."  
"Trust is a fragile thing. For you, displaying emotions and explaining feelings honestly with me is a promising display of trust. Do not fear; in time, you will be able to  
speak openly about what has happened. I guarantee it." At that, he placed the contract on the table beside Hermione. She picked it up and looked to her watch.  
"It is 7.15 - I must go."  
"Quite so. I trust you have arrangements in place to get home safely?"  
"Yes, thank you, Dr Lecter." Hermione took the paperwork and accepted her coat as he offered it and slipped it on. The gained warmth was a luxurious feeling.  
"I will see you next week, Hermione."  
"Bonne nuit, Dr Lecter," wished Hermione.  
"Goodnight Miss Granger."


	4. Honesty and Intimacy

_"Honesty is the highest form of intimacy"_

* * *

Seven days passed calmly. Despite the repeating flashbacks and nightmares, Hermione became remarkably settled into her routine. The bookshop became her sanctuary, for she was rarely triggered there. She was quite accustomed to hiding amongst Muggle literature. There, she was only reminded of studying in the library, or reading Austen for the first time, or countless, cosy evenings by the fire in the common room with Harry and Ron.

"Good evening Hermione."  
"Good evening Dr Lecter," she replied with a smile, relaxed by the romantic nostalgia of her reflections just prior. Taking advantage of her gaiety, Dr Lecter immediately informed her-  
"I have an unconventional proposal for today's session."  
"Oh?" responded Hermione, following him into the office. They did not stop at their normal seats - instead, he lead her to a white sofa residing by the strikingly, scarlet wall.  
"It is unorthodox," he warned.  
"Well, if you believe it will help..."  
"Do you trust me?" Hermione thought back to the confidentiality agreement.  
"I am trying to."

This seemed to satisfy Dr Lecter, since he then obtained a thermos from his desk and poured Hermione what appeared to be a cup of tea.  
"I've never considered tea unorthodox - particularly not whilst in England." Hot steam warmed her cheeks when she accepted the drink from him as he joined her on the sofa.  
"It is an infusion of psilocybin mushrooms."  
"You mean to say it contains psychedelic compounds." Hermione stopped hugging the mug and held it out in front of her.  
"I promise they are perfectly safe." Still sceptical, Hermione tried to pass the tea to him. "I was a doctor of medicine before a psychiatrist. You can trust my medical judgement." This persuaded Hermione unbelievably fast.  
"You're just saying that to-"  
"I would never lie to you, Hermione." There was great power in his statement. Even though she had always said she would never do drugs... This was medicinal, right? Before she could convince herself otherwise, Hermione drank. Downing tea had become quite a skill for her, so she could finish it and wouldn't be late for lessons.

The mug fell from her hands and landed softly in her lap, leaving only a drop of leftover liquid on her jeans. Dr Lecter quickly removed it before it could be knocked to the floor.  
"I…" Hermione uttered, rather unsure of herself and staring at her hands in confusion.  
"You may feel a little unusual for a while, and will experience other sensory effects within the next hour."  
"Will it… amplify what I normally experience?"  
"With my assistance, it shall not. Instead, I intend to build up associations between your memories and therapy with me, to help make you more comfortable when talking about your past." Hermione stared at him for a long while, though he never faltered from his simple expression: juxtaposed interest and detachment.

"That's… not a good idea. I don't avoid it just because it hurts, but also… also…"  
"You can trust me-"  
"Hannibal," interrupted Hermione. He looked to her calmly. "Your name is Hannibal."  
"It is on my business card, and signature on the contract," he affirmed.  
"I would be more comfortable if I could call you by your name. Feels more like a friend than a doctor… and anyway, Will calls you Hannibal."  
"Will..."  
"Graham," confirmed Hermione. "I liked him: was glad for his questions - it was nice to use my learning in something useful."  
"You know I cannot discuss another patient with you," he reminded.

"You can listen though," she answered. She did not notice the minute changes in Hannibal's expression at the mention of Will's name. Indeed, she was somewhat distracted by a quiet dizziness in her skull and discolouring to her vision. "If I trust you, then I can talk about him with you, and then I could maybe tell you about the others. Will… Will reminded me of some of my classmates at school. He was quiet - like Cho - but she was never so… fumbly. No, that discomfort was alike Quirrell - he was a professor in my first year, when I was eleven."  
"Were you close with them?"  
"Quirrel and Cho? No!" smiled Hermione. "Harry and Ron - they were my best friends. The Weasleys - Ginny - all of them. Neville and Luna too, of course." Hermione sunk back into the sofa, mumbling about summers spent at the Weasleys - the food, gardening, sun, picnics…

" _Give them no reason to harm you. It is not in the nature of a dementor to be forgiving."  
_ "Sorry?" asked Hermione, looking to  _Dumbledo-_ Hannibal. Silvery wisps of hair, short not long…  _or long? Hermione rubbed at her eyes and turned fully to the man beside her. He wore a long, dark cloak, and his beard was tied with a ribbon a few inches below his chin._

" _Harry, is Harry alright?" Dumbledore blinked and looked about the room. "Professor, the dementors - there were hundreds of them by the lake. He cast a patronus but…"_

 _Hermione's voice faded as she realised it was not Dumbledore she was beside, but Harry himself, and from him walked Hannibal, coming to stand in front of her._  
" _Harry," gasped Hermione, reaching out to him. He turned, the mark of the scar on his forehead stronger than she was accustomed. Around them, there was a crescendo of sound - footsteps and spells. It came from behind Hannibal's bookcases, though the noise was kept at bay behind those shelves._  
" _I think I've known for a while, Hermione," said Harry slowly._  
" _I'll come with you…" insisted Hermione.  
_ " _No. Kill the snake. Kill the snake and it's just him." She grasped him in her arms, holding him tight. The young man unafraid of death. So brave, so strong. Her best friend._

"Hermione." Brown hair swirled and she turned to face him, a silhouette in the halos of sunlight. She rose to walk to Hannibal, and then went past him, reaching out to the mosaic of spines. Reaching into the bookcase, Hermione removed a burgundy book with golden lettering.  
"Dante," she murmured, smiling to Hannibal. He watched her, walking closer to speak. "I'll be careful," she promised, indicating the book in hand. "Sorry. I just - I do love books. They've always been there for me. Dumbledore knew that - it's why he gave me the deathly hallows hidden within 'The Tales of Beedle and Bard'."  
"Dumbledore?" inquired Hannibal.  
"Albus Dumbledore! A great wizard," she exclaimed before pattering over to the chaise lounge on her tiptoes and collapsing onto it. "Though he had flaws like the rest of us." Hannibal pulled up a chair beside her.  
"How did you know Dumbledore?"  
"He was headmaster at Hogwarts."

"That was the name of your school, then?" Hermione nodded.  
"And you believe this man to have been involved with the occult?"  
"Believe? The occult?" Hermione rolled to her side to look to him. "You misunderstand magic. I mean to say, he is a wizard like I am a witch. We don't read Tarrow cards or dabble with Ouejia boards. Our magic is... Our home, life, comfort. It's part of me."  
"So you possess magical powers?"  
"Why yes!" Hermione laughed. "I could unlock a door if you asked me to, or transfigure that mug into a falcon. Not in here though - it would make an awful mess of your room." She rolled down so she lay flat on her back, in a Freudian pose. Looking up to the ceiling, which swirled like the mixing of white paint, Hermione allowed herself a moment to think. Who was she talking to? When she looked across the room, there stood  _Harr-Dumbl-_ Hannibal.

_"These powers you possess - when did they start?" asked Dumbledore.  
_ _"Well... I don't know when I first exhibited magic. It would be written in the Book of Admittance, if you wished for a date. Otherwise though, I would guess I was maybe eight? It was in PE - I made a ball move without touching it."_

"This is before the trauma?" Hannibal questioned.  
"Very much so," Hermione affirmed, clasping her hands together. "Many years beforehand." He seemed confused.  
"I would show you but then the Ministry would take me to court for breaking the Statute of Secrecy." When Hannibal did not reply, Hermione sat up to speak at the same level.  
"I'm not delusional," she insisted.  
"You have a construct you live in - a mind palace of events to hel-"  
"I don't have a  _mind palace_ ," she interrupted. "I'm not- this- it's the truth! It's my-"  _Thud._  Hermione's hand fell down and her body fell forwards. Hannibal caught her and positioned her back again.

"Hermione?"  
"I- you- I see."  
"The tea is returning traumas to your conscious mind. Tell me, what do you see?"  
"There is... There is..."

_Flashing lights and colours. Red and gold, or green and silver. She falls deeper and deeper until she reaches clarity. Malfoy's torments of "You filthy little Mudblood". Chanting and cheering and Quidditch and kissing. Ron kissing Lavender._  
_Then the scene changes to one of darkness and clouds with the Dark Mark engraved. Dementors on the train, Sirius Black, werewolves. Cedric, Dumbledore, Lavender, Dobby, Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin. Gone gone gone GONE._  
_Bellatrix._  
_The foul breath of the snatchers, and the tight hold of Fenrir, wand to her throat. Fear of being on the run, loneliness, no parents, Ron leaving, Hogwarts._  
_The Battle.  
_ _Nagini. Harry's death, even if just momentary. That sour, sadistic joy of Voldemort. Tormented laughter at pain. Joy in suffering. Then, afterwards, finding the things that broke would never really fix. The failed return of her parents memories. Flashbacks and nightmares, sweat and tears. Ron._

When she realised she was in Hannibal's office, Hermione was unsure what she had told him. She certainly knew she had spoken though, for he sat with eery attentiveness.  
"Did I..." He did not answer. In fact, he seemed less to be looking to her and more through her. As if he could see inside - see the cracks in her heart and tears in her brain, and taste the tepid blood rushing down every vein and capillary, straining out of each artery. It was like he could feel her lungs inflate and deflate in his hands and would, if he wished, hold the clammy flesh shut and stop all breath forever.

Hermione jumped sharply in her chair, a gasp tearing from her throat.  
"What have I done..." she whispered.  
"You have spoken truthfully, that I am certain." He spoke softly but with juxtaposing, piercing certainty.  
"I need to go."  
"You are not recovered from the tea-"  
"I cannot stay. I must go." She carefully rose to her feet and walked as fast as she could manage to the door.  
"Hermione," commanded Hannibal. She turned to acknowledge him but then left the room. When Hannibal followed her he heard a sharp crack of air and, upon reaching the door, found street devoid of any signs she might be there.


	5. Intelligence or Madness

_Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence'_ \- Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

Hermione was numb to Nellie's affections. After apparating home, she had remained in the garden a while, on the outskirts of the forest beside their house. An hour passed before she finally made it into the house. In that time, many displays of past and present merged and fused in the trees around her. The soil became the stones of Hogwarts, or the bark of trees like Bellatrix's hair. She saw Nagini and Buckbeak in the birds that passed, and old friends visited in the breeze. Sparse droplets of rain from branches above fell like drops of blood.

"Hermione, is that you..." Neville's voice faded away when he saw the shivering lady knelt on the doormat. Nellie could sense her upset, and was snuggling up against her, nudging Hermione with her nose.  
"I-" she stuttered. No further words would come. She was too cold.  
"Hermione?" called Luna from upstairs, accompanied by the sound of running water and Tommy splashing in the bath.  
"Yes," shouted Neville in return. "Come on," he continued, resting a hand on her upper back. "We need to warm you up."  
"I made a mistake Neville," she whimpered, easing gently upwards, bones of ice cracking.  
"Trust me... We'll get over it. We always do." Hermione didn't look convinced. He raised a hand to her cheek and lifted her to look to him.  
"We always do?"  
"Yes."  
"I guess so," she whispered with a tiny, nibbling smile. Neville helped Hermione into the kitchen and gave her a blanket to wrap up in. Water in kettle, kettle on, kettle boiling. One, two, three. Neville's dark hair, woolen jumper and thick socks. One, two, three.

 _"There you go," murmured her father, pushing a mug of tea to her._ "No," she thought sharply. "This is Neville. I'm drinking hot chocolate."  
_Eyes empty of recognition, and emotions of pity and worry. There'd be no motherly concern to cling to._

"Hermione. Hermione? Hermione Jean Granger, you are with me. Look it's... 8.45. You're in America, you're free, and you're with me." He relaxed when he saw her focus on her surroundings, the period of dissociation still present yet subdued. He wrapped an arm over her shoulder and held her a moment. He was warm and stable and home.  
"Thank you," whispered Hermione.

"What happened?" he asked. They were on the sofa now, and Luna sat with Nellie and a draft copy of the Quibbler on the rocking chair.  
"I told him - Hannibal - Dr Lecter. Not... Fully. Or in any way making sense. But I spoke about magic and Dumbledore and Hogwarts and I- I've broken- everything." Little sobs shook in her throat. "I'll have to obliviate him but I- I-"  
"Memory charms," said Luna softly. Hermione nodded, rubbing at her watery eyes. "We can do it for you, if you'd like?"  
"We might not have to. I mean... Muggles find out about magic all the time." Neville looked firm in his point.  
However, Luna questioned him-  
"Magical law in America is tight. We could be in an awful amount of trouble. What makes you so sure?"  
"The unbreakable vow."  
"I'm not sure..."  
"It won't work," stated Hermione, "He's a muggle."

"Lisa may have an idea of what to do," suggested Luna. Lisa Lounds was the American witch who had introduced Luna to Freddie when they had first moved. As Luna ran her magical newspaper, Freddie focused on events of the Muggle world, and the pair bonded over their shared profession (yet experienced no competition due to their differing audiences). Although Lisa could wield magic, Freddie was a squib. However she held no bitterness over it, and instead embraced the many fantastical elements of the muggle world. To Luna's displeasure, that generally meant sophisticated, gruesome crimes.

"Hannibal Lecter... He is a psychiatrist, often working with the FBI. Freddie often talks about him and that profiler Will Graham." Hermione hiccuped at the mention. Lisa continued-  
"MACUSA would call for obliviation... But there are loop holes, if you don't wish to do that." Luna, who knelt beside the fireplace, asked the face in the flames-  
"Would it be possible to confide in Dr Lecter, in these circumstances."  
"If MACUSA came to know about it, I can see they would likely allow it - seeing as the Ministry are funding the appointments."  
"The Ministry were not informed  _exactly_ who my psychiatrist was..." noted Hermione, "to ensure my privacy."  
"Ah- well- still. If you trust him, I'd take the risk."  
"There's little harm that could come of it," Luna added. Lisa looked unconvinced by this. "Muggle relations should be promoted," continued Luna, "not prohibited."  
"All in good measure though," said Neville.  
"And I'm not sure MACUSA share your belief. These are times of great animosity between wizards and no-maj."  
"Small steps, ey," reassured Neville, and Luna gracefully took his hand as he sat beside her.

Suddenly, Hermione stood, bid them goodnight and left the room. Upon entering the dining room, Hermione rifled through the cabinets until she found the yellow pages.  
"Will Graham..." she muttered, flicking through until she found the possible numbers. Luckily, there were only a few to try, and even more fortunate was she that the first one seemed to be right.  
"Hello?"  
"Hi - is that Will Graham?"  
"Ur- yeah- Who is this?"  
"Hermione. Hermione Granger - from the bookshop."  
"Oh- oh, okay," he stuttered. She could hear the sound of paper rustling and jerky movements.  
"I'm sorry - if you're busy, I can-"  
"No, no, it's fine. Just- clearing some stuff. It's fine." There was a pause. "How did you get my number?"  
"Found it in the yellow pages."  
"Didn't know that still existed."

"Quite," agreed Hermione. "I was just phoning as I wondered if I could ask you about Hannibal, Dr Lecter?" Will hummed.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well, you see, I want to know if I can trust him. With very confidential information. Extremely so."  
"Uhh, well... I discuss cases with him."  
"Like you did me?"  
"Yes, and more. I trust Hannibal, more than I would care to admit."  
"Ah, ok."  
"It's best to be open, in therapy. So..."  
"Ok. Yes. Thank you." There was an awkward pause. "How's the case? With the lady."  
"There's been progress, but nothing substantial. I wouldn't be surprised if there was another murder soon, judging by this killer's patterns and motivations."  
"Well, if there's more runes to translate, I'd be happy to help."  
"Yes- thank you."  
"Well... Have a good evening Will."  
"You too Hermione."

When Hermione returned later that evening, Hannibal was on his doorstep almost immediately - he had clearly been watching out for her.  
"Hello," she called. She doubted he could hear her, but he responded in kind. From the way he stood by the open door, she could see he was beckoning her over to join him. Those knowing eyes watched her as she crossed the road and made the way along the pavement to his house.  
"Hello Hannibal."  
"Hermione - come in."  
"I don't wish to intrude." Indeed, he stood at the entrance to his house rather than his office.  
"Of course not." His porch opened into a hallway with many doors coming off. Hermione observed them all, forming a map of the house in her thoughts. Afterwards, her attention returned to Hannibal. Each action - from guiding her to the sitting room, to pouring them both a glass of wine - was perfunctory. Though Hermione may technically be the predator (with magic meaning she had the most power) she felt predated under his gaze. It was as if he watched her in humour, like a hunter watching a tiger with the knowledge that they would kill it.

 _That sour, sadistic joy of Voldemort._  Hannibal shared it... or maybe he did not. Hermione screwed her eyes a little, trying to determine whether what she saw was fiction or reality.  
"What I spoke of earlier - it may seem fantastical, but I reassure that I know it all to be real. I'm not deluded, and my past is not a construct. I know you may never believe me, but... Do you?"  
"There is no doubt you spoke truthfully, and I trust you believe it has happened," Hannibal remarked. "I am capable of faith and, in this matter, may have to rely on it for the sake of your therapy. Professionally, I shall endeavour to believe it, as to understand you. However, from an external perspective, I cannot say I would share the view. Not without further evidence." His words were that of a therapist but eyes that of a man filled with desire. Maybe he realised that, for they suddenly softened to convey a sense of trust and security.

"Where did you go when you left my office?"  
"I apparated home - with magic. Then stayed in the forest by my house a little while."  
"How long for?" He appeared concerned.  
"An hour or so I'd guess. I still felt slightly delirious from the tea."  
"Yes." Hannibal rose from his chair and walked across the room before returning swiftly to it. "It is not what I intended to happen. The tea induces hallucinations but helps you rationalise those images from your past by associating them what is around you. It is comparable to an elaborate, more permanent grounding technique."  
"But I left before the effects had worn off."  
"Your mind will therefore have made associations between your surroundings in the woods and your memories."  
"Ah." She watched how Hannibal's slight twitches conveyed that he was bothered by this. "Is it a problem?"  
"In retrospect, maybe not. Though not ideal, association with nature means being outside will be calming for you."  
"That is good! I should be pleased to take a walk without worry of who might be behind every bush and tree." Hermione glanced down to Hannibal's shoes. "What had you intended me to make associations with?" Lips puckering a little, he replied-  
"This office, me, as to create an environment you would be comfortable in."  
"I could drink some more?"  
"No, that would not be wise. You reacted very strongly to the drink, and consuming more could have adverse side effects. Instead, we should take advantage of what has occurred, and plan to spend some of our sessions outside." After discussing such plans for the future, Hermione retired for the night and apparated home. Outside, she lingered a moment as the house in front her went to bed. Hermione found she felt at peace amongst the trees, with the sounds of the night. That was where her memories were at rest.


	6. A Chemical Defect

' _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side'_  - Sherlock

* * *

Hermione spent most days surrounded by muggles, so it was unsurprising she found herself becoming acquainted with a fair number of them. Mr Jones (who never failed to make her a cup of tea when she arrived), Poppy (mother of the smallest newborn Hermione had ever seen), and Liam (a middle aged reading enthusiast), to name but a few. The bookshop seemed to attract people she instantly got along with. Of course, there was also Freddie (who came round with Lisa every week for roast dinner on a Tuesday evening), Hannibal (who was an excellent student of Ancient Runes, besides being her psychiatrist) and Will. It was Will who now stood at the counter in front of her.

"Alana sent me here. I need to make a friend outside of work, and she said my therapist didn't count... So I thought you'd be a good choice."  
"Me?" Hermione's surprise did not seem to deter Will. He'd walked into the shop, determined on what would happen: he hadn't even taken his coat off.  
"I don't take to people well, so feeling companionable around someone is a rarity."  
"But we've spoken..."  
"Twice." Will frowned when he realised this. Hermione tried to hide from his tired blush. He really was trying (bless him) but was clearly not enjoying asking.  
"Let us speak for a third time then," declared Hermione. "I think I'm done for the day - just need to close up shop." Will nodded and allowed her to set about locking doors and generally arranging things ready for closure. Meanwhile he read along the titles of the book, allowing himself to trail meaninglessly past them like he would in Hannibal's office.

"Ready!" Hermione appeared next to him donning a duffle coat and large scarf that made her head seem tiny. "I assume we're going for a walk?"  
"Umm... If you'd like to." Honestly, Hermione's proposal was far preferable to what Will had planned. "In fact, we could walk my dogs?" he suggested.  
"I'd love to." They stepped out into the street, and little puffs of breath began to cloud in the air in front of them. Having locked the door, Hermione tucked the keys in her pocket and joined Will to walk down the pavement.  
"How many do you have?" Now Will was smiling.  
"You'll see."

Will lived nearby so Hermione followed in her car, soon arriving at a lonely house down the bottom of a dusty lane. As soon as she opened her car door she heard the sound of barking. She followed Will to the house and was met with quite a sight. Simply: if you were to describe one a dog as a raindrop, Will's dogs were an ocean. They boundlessly scuttled about him as he prepared them for the walk and, when permitted, leapt eagerly out into the cold. They gave the illusion of waves rising and falling - waves of fur and tails. All the dogs seemed ignorant of the evening chill that had Will and Hermione burrowing in winter gear.

"Does anyone else..." Hermione looked around her, as they followed the dogs across the field.  
"Live with me? No."  
"...Live locally. Neighbours?"  
"Oh. Yes - there is a family off over there." Will pointed back towards the road. "It's a good ten minute walk away though."  
"Hmm, I don't know whether to envy or pity such isolation," she pondered. "I have to say that the view is nice though." It stretched out in an expanse of fields, forests and rivers.  
"That was why I bought this house: the isolation and the surroundings."  
"For the dogs?"  
"I didn't have so many then." He chuckled slightly at the memory. "It has certainly been suitable as I accumulated them. When I first bought it, though, I was trying to escape a busy life. This home became my calm, like a boat at rest on a still lake."  
"That reminds me of work, in the bookshop. I've always spent a lot of time around books. They're much easier than people, sometimes, which I appreciate now. Besides, I can never get bored of education on something new."  
"I assume you live locally, to be working there?"  
"Maybe 20 minutes from here? Not far."

Conversation soon drifted to the cuisine of their shared therapist.  
"Hosting dinner parties is a prerogative of the wealthy."  
"Anyone can have a dinner party. Takeaways arranged on fancy plates. Pizza with a selection of drinks."  
"I must admit... I don't believe I've ever done that," admitted Hermione. Will's mouth fell agape.  
"Of all our honesty this evening, that has to be amongst the most shocking!" Hermione rolled her eyes.  
"Never having a takeaway is hardly surprising. And I have been to gatherings where there was food; Treacle tart and sweets and hot chocolate in our dormitories."  
"You went to boarding school?"  
"Yes."  
"...You'd rather not talk about it," deduced Will.  
"No... Well, yeah, but- I don't know. It's hard. There's a lot of loss and loneliness now, as a result of it. I'm worried talking about it will be too much for me right now."  
"Am I correct in saying you have PTSD?" checked Will. Hermione nodded. "Well, I must note then that I sympathise - we share a few symptoms."  
"That's an interesting connection," laughed Hermione.  
"Hallucinations are my area of expertise."

The couple continued to walk. Once through the forest, they would loop round and back to the house. For now they were surrounded by trees. As Hermione watched, the branches above her curled into dark locks of hair, and silhouettes in the evening light merged a trunk into the figure of a woman. Hermione knew Bellatrix would look haunting, but never so... Trapped. Anchored to the ground by heaving, heavy roots. She was thankful to Hannibal that his tea seemed to be working.

Without warning, she remarked-  
"I once knew a tree that was out of control." Will glanced up and smirked.  
"You speak as if it were a person."  
"It had personality, at least." Hermione smiled wistfully, and neither felt it necessary for her to elaborate further on the meaning of her words. Even if Will was ignorant of the Whomping Willow, he could certainly understand that there can be meaning and movement in everything, even an inanimate object.

Back at Will's house, Hermione snuggled into the sofa and read a book on fishing from the coffee table, allowing Will to sort out the dogs and tidy up for tea. When he was nearly done, there was a firm knock on the door.  
"Hannibal?"  
"Hullo Will. May I come in?"  
"Of course. I just- wasn't expecting you." He eyed the platter Hannibal held, a certainly elegant dish hidden under the metal dome.  
"I visit you every Tuesday. Have you forgotten?" Will glanced up to him and nodded, biting slightly on his lower lip. There was a pause. Then he tried to apologise - evidently ashamed - and took the platter to the kitchen. When Will returned he found Hannibal still stood at the doorway but now conversing with Hermione.

"I trust your walk was as refreshing as we'd hoped."  
"It's unbelievable! All worry just seems to dissipate."  
"Excellent. Now we simply must learn to generalise that relaxed association to a wider range of stimuli and situations." When Hannibal returned his attention to Will, it wasn't immediately obvious that the psychiatrist was angry. It was more of a sense, a feeling of hostility, though not directed at Will. In fact, it seemed to be aimed at Hermione, and Will busied himself trying to think why. Despite that concern, he was a very amiable gentleman. As always.  
"We have both become unexpected guests," continued Hermione.  
"Does that comfort you - to have a companion in the matter?" returned Hannibal.  
"Nice to have a hand to hold when going somewhere new. Besides, you are an excellent conversationalist." Will could've sworn Hannibal's eyebrows raised a little, and was certain he noticed a glimpse of sarcastic amusement at her comment.

"Is the meal...?" Will left the question open, eyes wide and head tilted to Hannibal. He was prising an answer out of him without really knowing what he wanted to ask. Hannibal seemed to know though.  
"To feed three? It will suffice, without the need for a miracle."  
"Three loaves of bread and two fish," noted Hermione as she rose from the sofa to follow the men to the table.  
"More specifically: Gravadlax with sautéed potatoes."  
"From the fish I caught for you?"  
"Yes." Hannibal looked to Will warmly, a slight smile showing. Will nibbled away the subtle curve of his own lips, and they proceeded to serve the dish. Hermione watched their companionable silence, and decided Alana was wrong: Will didn't need a friend - he already had one, and his psychiatrist definitely counted. Will and Hannibal knew one another more than she had anticipated.

The meal was served with glasses of white wine and light discussions of weather, psychology and food. When they had just about finished, it was interrupted by Will's mobile.  
"It's Jack," muttered Will. He looked to Hannibal as if seeking permission to take the call: clearly, it was granted. "Hi Jack... No, that's fine... Where is it?" Will reached for a piece of paper and scribbled down an address. "Just off the road? They should check... I'm not sure. I don't... Hmm, I'll just- Hannibal, there's been another beheading. Would you come?"  
"Of course."  
"Ah. Good. Thank you. I can then... Runes? Yeah that can be done... I'll be there by the hour... Yes. Right... Bye."  
"Is it far?"  
"Thirty miles north." Then they turned to Hermione.  
"I'm sorry," Will grimaced, "it's sudden of us, to go." Hermione gritted her teeth and looked for his avoidant gaze.

"You could come," suggested Hannibal. "Whilst your presence would prove helpful in translating the runes, I ask more as to hope that the scene may provide an opportunity for a situation... Reminiscent of past events that you are struggling with."  
"Is that wise?" she asked.  
"It's a risk grounded in fair probability of success."  
"Abigail..." murmured Will.  
"Quite so," agreed Hannibal. Seats scraped as they stood.  
"Would you be alright if I came?" Hermione asked Will.  
"I haven't a problem with it," he stuttered, more preoccupied with finding keys.  
"Come: I'll drive," reassured Hannibal. Will gave a marginally coy smile and allowed him to guide them from the house and to the Bentley. Hermione paused before entering, wary of the vehicle's luxury, but when Will climbed straight into the passenger seat she followed suit into the back.


	7. Hide your Face

_'Never trust a hug. It's just a way to hide your face'_  - Twelfth Doctor

* * *

Thirty miles passes fairly quickly if you're not paying attention. Hermione watched out the window and became somewhat oblivious of the conversations about operas and serial killers shared by the men in front. However, when they pulled up at the crime scene, the light-hearted atmosphere transitioned to something much bleaker. Hannibal sensed this and placed a hand on Will's forearm to tell him-

"I'll be with you, if you need me."  
"Thank you," Will mumbled, meeting his eyes for a second before leaving to see Jack.  
"Come," encouraged Hannibal, opening Hermione's door and offering an arm to her. She took it gladly, holding firmly to secure herself to him. She needed some familiarity since she could already feel the worry rising within her. It certainly helped that the scene was outside. She let the wind whisper caring words of comfort over her, and held to that feeling as she walked with Hannibal. Their path following Will was illuminated by spotlights plugged in and placed about the scene creating beams of white light in the early nighttime. Before Hermione had a chance to dwell on the surrounding shadows, she was pulled into a conversation.

"Hermione Granger," explained Will, "is the expert on Ancient Runes I consulted. She's agreed to take a look in person since she was with me when you called."  
"Ah. My apologies for interrupting your evening, Miss Granger."  
"That's alright," she responded.  
"Jack Crawford. Head of Behavioural Sciences Unit, and FBI special agent in charge of this case." She unlooped her arm from Hannibal to shake Jack's hand but quickly returned to him. The dependency upon her psychiatrist was unnerving, but she supposed it was to be expected in the situation. Surrounded by people she did not know, it was important to her to ensure she felt safe, so one hand lingered over her wand pocket as the other arm joined around Hannibal's, trusting his perception and strength if they were in danger.

_Foolish, really. Little did she know, Hannibal was the only one there who wanted to hurt her._

Behind a layer of forensics and detectives was the crime scene. It was not extravagant - nothing like some of the images Hermione had glimpsed in Tattle crime. However, it's frugal nature did not deter from the horror. In a glass bowl rested the head of an elderly gentleman. His fine, white hair floated wistfully, and his features were frozen into a permanent emptiness. A truly vacant form. Oddly, Hermione did not find the head that disturbing. Although her heart raced as she considered the familiarity of this corpse with others she had seemed - notably Dumbledore - the head also reminded her of Nearly-Headless Nick, or that one on the night bus. It held a quality of calmness contrasting with the dead of the Battle. It held a calmness and peace, as if the man had truly passed away in sleep.

Around it was looping symbols in white paint. Will stood just in front.  
"The killer washed the head in the icy water of the stream down there," explained Beverly Katz to Hermione, "to clean away prints. Then the bowl that it's in helps prevent rigamortis." Oddly, that brought her more discomfort than the crime scene itself. Images of icy rivers from the Horcrux hunting flashed in her mind, along with thoughts of what it must have been like for Harry trapped under that ice.

"What about the body?"  
"Don't know about that yet," Katz sighed. "Any suggestions Dr Lecter?"  
"The body is unimportant here - likely discarded." Hermione swallowed and went to step away from the conversation and join Will.  
"Wait," warned Hannibal, keeping hold of her arm to prevent her from continuing forward.  
"Will likes it quiet," stated Katz.  
"Free of distractions," Hannibal elaborated. That would explain why the layer of forensics were stood back from the scene, rather than inspecting it themselves.  
"Is it consistent with the previous display from this killer?" queried Hannibal.  
"Somewhat," responded Katz with a shrug. "Physically, it is very similar - location, arrangement, what not. Emotionally though... You'll have to ask Will that." The man in question was walking back towards them and Jack.  
"Both victims will have had dementia, and are from local care homes. The killer will have a family member also suffering - parent probably."

"What's his motive?"  
"This is about remembering how things once were. Last time was his first kill - this one is more refined, precise. He's focusing, getter closer. It's preparation for the finale."  
"He's planning to kill his parent?"  
"Planning to end their pain. He's being kind... Just he is struggling to go about it. He feels helpless about their inevitable death, and these murders are giving him the power and confidence he needs to do something about it."  
"And what about the runes?"  
"They're something he's knowledgeable on. He's using them to make a statement, to make something profound - he didn't feel words were fitting for his creation. Or perhaps they are an interest of a parent. Either way, he wants to honour them in their death. He wants to create a work of art they are worthy of."  
"Bit pretentious," commented Katz.

"Could you translate them for us, Miss Granger?" Jack asked.  
"I can try," she answered gingerly, taking his prompt to step closer to the scene.  
"Loss," murmured Hannibal from just behind her.  
"Yes - very good," agreed Hermione. "Do you recognise the others?"  
"I'm afraid not. Would you care to enlighten me?"  
"The one at the top," indicated Hermione, "is the symbol for man. Then the one below it could be translated as year, or harvest. The others are almost too messy to read, but I'd think- maybe- something to do with honour, or work, or ending." As Hannibal told Will this information, Hermione decided to step away from the scene. Heaviness was lingering inside her and, the longer she stood near the head, the more she could feel it pulling her down and out. She felt as if she could no longer see clearly, like the images of her past where flashing just behind her vision in a series of slides from a strip of negatives.

Near to Hannibal's car, she sat down on a log and rested her head on her knees. Each breath was carefully controlled as she tried to prevent the panic from trickling on. When she looked up again, Freddie was beside her.  
"You've been out some time," she told her.  
"Sorry?" mumbled Hermione.  
"I've been trying to talk to you for a fair few minutes but you seemed sort of passed out," explained Freddie. When Hermione just looked further confused, Freddie explained-  
"Are you sure you're alright. I'm here for Tattlecrime. To get the story, and photos. I came to talk to you but- Why are you here?"  
"I came with Hannibal and Will. Helped translate the runes."  
"You know these runes from school?" she asked with a frown. Just the word school made Hermione flinch.  
"Yep."  
"How do you know Will?" Freddie asked. Hermione turned slightly to her and found herself disconcerted by Freddie's expression. She had transitioned from listening as a friend to questioning in pursuit of something.  
"This isn't for your paper, is it?" wondered Hermione. "I know you've written about him in the past. About the 'murder husbands'. I don't with to add fuel to the flames, and I'd rather keep him out of the papers." Freddie pouted and went to reply but Hermione found herself interrupting to continue.

"Do you realise how horrible it is, Freddie, to be the subject of newspapers and tabloids? Large photographs of your worst moments with a subtitle revealing scandals, irregardless of whether they are really true. Quotes from friends taken out of context creating an image too unbearable to look at yourself." Freddie was quiet. In fact, those anywhere near them were too. A circle of hush for the woman who had raised her voice. The woman who was crying - who hadn't even noticed she was crying.  
"Hermione, I..." began Freddie in a truly hurt tone. At the words Hermione turned sharply and all but ran back to Hannibal and Will. She couldn't talk to Freddie right now, to anyone. She just needed to go home.

Hannibal left Will talking with Jack to return with Hermione to the car. She didn't notice his reluctance at doing so.  
"What happened?" he asked once they were inside, turning in his seat to talk to Hermione as she sat in the back.  
"I shouted at Freddie. She's my friend, and I- I disregarded that in a moment of doubt," she detailed, words shaky in the aftermath of her upset.  
"Reasonable doubt?"  
"She wanted to write about Will, and you too I expect... and she wanted to use me as a source."  
"I'm certain she'd be understanding if you explained that to her." Hermione nodded and began to nibble on her fingers as they held her chin up.

"This wasn't a good idea," she whispered. "Coming here... I feel worse. Worse than I have in ages."  
"From my perspective, this is evidence of your improvement. Normally you avoid potential triggers but you faced this situation head-on. It is quite the achievement."  
"Is that why I moved to America?" asked Hermione. "It was part of an unconscious effort to avoid any reminders of the past?"  
"I've thought as much," confirmed Hannibal. He let her mull over that, turning in his seat to look back out for Will. Hannibal could just about spot the man's shadowy figure walking back to the car, no longer illuminated by the lights around the crime scene. Once Will climbed into the car, their bloody, golden trio was reformed. With all his usual gracefulness, Hannibal drove them back home.


	8. As a Snake Sheds it's Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it has been so long since my last chapter (if there is anyone left to tell!) For anyone who read this before, I must tell you that I have modified many of the previous chapters (though it is generally still the same).  
> Now it is summer, I am fully returning to the story, and looking forward to writing much more of it!

_'Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must shed our past over and over again'_  - Buddha

* * *

In the weeks following the crime scene, Hermione's life remained at a steady level of inactivity. Most of her time was spent in the garden with Neville or working at the bookshop. Freddie and Lisa came for lunch, but Hermione's outburst was never mentioned. This was unsurprising, since discussing it would likely just hurt and embarrass them both. Though Freddie ordinarily took no shame in her profession, she did feel guilty over that episode.

In amongst the consistency was her appointments with Hannibal. Every week she told him a little more - from the Triwizard Tournament to the Battle of Hogwarts. Although initially wary, Hermione committed to telling him about the magical world. Hermione saw Will too; he visited the bookshop to ask about runes on a new crime scene. She took the opportunity to arrange coffee, and thoroughly enjoyed an afternoon with him that weekend.

However, she did not see them together until a therapy session some weeks later. She'd been sat in the usual chair, discussing different relaxation techniques with Hannibal, when there had been a sudden (and persistent) knocking at the door.  
"Excuse me," said Hannibal with a severe face as he rose to answer the door. This vanished when he saw who walked in.  
"There's been another murder - it's the last - and I think we can find him." Will stepped to Hannibal, palms open in front of him. "I knew this was your appointment with Hermione, and the crime scene is only round the corner."  
"And so you force me to make an exception for you."  
"Rudeness is intolerable, I know," muttered Will. He stepped closer still, surely so far that Hannibal would be able to feel Will's breath on his cheek. Hannibal sniffed causing the corner of Will's mouth to perk.

"I don't mind," stated Hermione, interrupting them. "You can go." However, Will seemed troubled still.  
"Would you come?" he asked, twisting his mouth. After the last crime scene, it was unsurprising he was fearful to ask.  
"What do you recommend?" she asked Hannibal.  
"It is important to face situations that remind you of your past," he responded.

When they arrived at the scene, there was still only the minimum of workers there. The forensics team were reportedly still half an hour from arriving, and the site was isolated besides the bloody trio and a few police officers guarding.

"Special agent Will Graham - under orders of Jack Crawford, head of the investigation." The guard nodded, but stopped Hannibal and Hermione. "My psychiatrist and my consultant for the symbols." Reluctantly, the guard allowed them to pass under the tape. Hermione looked slowly around her. They were in the trees of a city park, and the scene was lit up with evening sunlight. There were no crowds and harsh spotlights like the previous crime scene. However, when Hermione tried to indicate a desire to hold to Hannibal like before, he turned subtly away from her. It seemed she would have to stand alone today.

Will paced forwards then stood still in mute silence. As he thought, Hermione carefully looked at the runes, considering the correct translations. When Will turned to her, she told him-  
"The first one represents time, and the second means life."  
"Observations rather than revelations," commented Hannibal. Will grunted with a broken smile.  
"All the local care homes - find out who's missing. The killer will still be close."

As they phoned Jack, Hermione went to stand alone a moment by the tape at the edge of the scene. Her heartbeat was fast, and she could feel a slight bubbling at the back of her skull.  
"Hermione," called Will. She turned to see him striding away into the trees.  
"The killer is likely still in this park. Come," beckoned Hannibal. Hermione followed him. They went deep into the trees, which turned out to be almost a forest. Hermione paused when she spotted a river to her side, but when she turned to tell Hannibal she realised he was not there.  
"Hannibal?" shouted Hermione. She tried again but found no response. Instead, she went to look at the river herself. If she leaned out a little, she could look along it and see it bending away behind trees further along.

_"Hermione!" yelled a voice. When she turned around, there was no one there._

_Suddenly, a scream. Then cries, and shouts and yells from all around. Hermione staggered back to a tree on the earth of the riverbank, and held to it as she slipped down to the ground. A man ran past, followed by a figure in a dark cloak, emerging from one tree and disappearing behind another._

Beside Hermione sat a woman. She had straight black hair scattered with occasional grey strands, and she too was leaning against a tree.  
"You alright?" the woman asked, words drowsy from the cigarette between her lips.

_Was she truly there? Real or a memory?_

When Hermione did not respond, she continued to talk.  
"I never thought it'd really come to this, you know. Like none of it really happened." She looked to Hermione and saw she was listening.  
"They say- they say the worst thing about it is how long it takes, and they're bloody right. Seeing him - my father - a Manchester professor, back in the day - losing him. Helpless... It's awful."

 _"We don't have a daughter..."_  
_"I'm sorry, dear."_

"He loved languages. Could speak a dozen of 'em! Runes though were more of a hobby. He said it were all true - the rituals and the symbols - he believed it certainly."  
"They were you," whispered Hermione, "the runes." The woman sniffed and stood up, chucking her cigarette to the floor and snubbing it under her foot.  
"Said to help him die. Practice makes perfect, so I did, I did and I'm not sure I can stop. Even now he's gone." The woman stepped towards Hermione who was now sat bolt upright against the tree, eyes wide and limbs frozen.

"I'm losing my mind," laughed the woman. Hermione jolted from the sobs of neurotic laughter, suddenly wrenching herself up, but then finding her back against the tree as the woman shoved her again to the tree trunk.  
"Please," whispered Hermione. She hit at her pockets but couldn't find her wand.

"Elizabeth," said a male voice. The woman stood back to reveal Hannibal. "Hermione," he continued, calm as ever. Hermione was panting heavily, and could hardly stand from how shaky everything seemed around her. Everything was real and yet not - it was a carnival of horrors, this amalgamation of past and present.

 _"It's what he wanted..."_  
_"I can't stop..."_  
_"Natural... There's nothing wrong_  Elizabeth."

That was now, that was Hannibal.

Hermione grabbed her wand, holding it tight against her thigh. She was in danger, truly. Something swung by -  _a curse?_  A knife?

"No," shrieked Hermione, raising her wand.  _Voices gathered around her, chants and cries and the sounds of battle._  She couldn't tell who was in front of her, but she was terrified. Hermione spoke to the Paisley suit-  
"Please, Hannibal, help me." He stood still, offering no assistance.  _The danger grew closer and flashing lights of curses brighter._  
"I can't," she cried, waving her wand. A streak of bright light erupted, and then one of red. Casting the spell sent tremors through her and she stumbled to the ground.

_A snake stretched in front of her, mouth open wide. Hermione screamed as she was swallowed in darkness._


	9. The Tragedy of Living

_‘All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that's the tragedy of living'_ \- Ian Thomas

* * *

  _"She's awake."_  
"How do you feel?"  
"I'll go get some water."  
"Miss Granger? Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione blinked, eyelids sticky. She turned her head to see Hannibal sat beside her, a book open in his hands.  
"Where am I?"  
"In my office." Indeed, they were no longer in the forest. Beside Hannibal stepped Will, walking over with a glass. Hermione went to accept it, eager to rinse away the metal taste in her mouth, though when she lifted her arms to take it noticed the burgundy pattern along them.  
“It’s not yours,” reassured Hannibal.

_It’s not yours, it’s not yours, it’s not yours._

“Drink,” insisted Will, edging the glass into her outstretched hands. Once she had managed a few gulps, he began to explain. "You found the killer. She was… neurotic. When I came, you were casting spells at her-”  
“-You know?” she interrupted. Will shrugged, admitting as such.  
“It’s the simplest explanation. After that, you went out cold. Hannibal and I… dealt with the woman.” Will looked to the doctor, seeking validation for his account.  
"Is she..."  
"Elizabeth Orson is dead," said Hannibal firmly.  
“Alright,” mumbled Hermione. “How?”  
“Fatal blow to the back of the head.” Hermione reached her hand to her own scalp.  
“You suffered a few knocks, but some bruising should be the most of it.”

“What happens now?”  
“I imagine Jack will want us to provide statements.” On cue, Will’s mobile rang. It was a short call.  
“Jack’s still at the crime scene.”  
“Go. Miss Granger needs a change of clothes and a moment to clear her head. Jack will manage without us until then. For now, he needs you.” Will gave a jagged smile and headed swiftly to the door, tailed by Hannibal.  
“Don’t tell them,” urged Hermione.  
“About the magic? No, they wouldn’t believe me if I tried.” Then Will was gone, closing the door and leaving them alone.

Hannibal returned across the room, returning to the seat pulled up beside Hermione. She watched as he walked over.  
“What truly happened?” she asked.  
“It is as Will described."  
"No, but, you knew her? You spoke with her... I think...You knew her," insisted Hermione, leaning forwards on her seat. "Is she a patient?"  
Hannibal twitched, and his expression emptied. He suddenly felt awfully cold, as if he had previously been wearing a mask. Even if the mask were stoic and firm, it was certainly warmer than how he looked now. Lips thinned, eyes piercing. Hannibal stood and walked towards a bookcase. Suddenly Hermione noticed what was so striking in his walk – it was the dominance. Subtle, sophisticated dominance exerted in every step.  
“Dr Lecter?” whispered Hermione. “Hannibal?”

There was another flinch, as sharp as the previous. Hermione paused, considering the moment. The tension was palpable, and suddenly Hannibal’s posture changed from elegance to what Hermione could only label as danger. _He’s not human. Not in how he looks, nor in how he acts. He’s a snake in human skin, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He may be made of Riddle bones, but he’s Voldemort through and through._ Words of warning from the war. Fearful tales passed from ear to ear.

Hannibal turned to look at her, head tilted slightly. Suddenly her suspicions were not ridiculous creations of a paranoid mind, and Hermione realised there may be some truth to them. It would explain why he acted so unusually. Why his practices were so unusual. Why he had conversed with Elizabeth, rather than stepping forwards to help when Hermione had called.  
“She was a patient.” He spoke slowly, hands behind his back. “Therapy for her was rather effective.” Hermione nibbled at her lip. Elizabeth hardly seemed… stable. Then again, Hermione was learning her judgement of stable people was rather awful. She’d turned to a psychiatrist who now walked towards her with anger in his eyes. It was as it it hid behind his pupils, only appearing if you chose to look close enough.  
“She killed people. That doesn’t seem effective to me.”

“Elizabeth found purpose and meaning. The acts for her were cathartic.”  
“She was neurotic – Will said it himself!” Hannibal huffed and stood beside his chair. Hermione did not take her eyes off him, wand in hand and ready.  
“She was satisfied. Complete.”

Everything was wrong, and Hermione so alone. _Don’t show them mercy – they won’t show any to you._ She had to do something. Every moment that passed was every step closer to the storm. _There’s a storm coming Harry, and you better beware when she does._

Hot turned to cold and suddenly she made a decision. There were many options here, but most important was checking she was not misreading the situation. She had to know the truth, and there was one certain way to find that. To hell with MACUSA. If he posed a threat she was going to find out, else she'd be dead before she could perform one spell. May as well be prosecuted for multiple accounts of magic in front of muggles, than in a grave before the law can touch her.

Whether Hannibal truly had such a look of danger in his eyes, or it was just her paranoia, Hermione acted fast:  
"Legillimens."  
  
_Darkness then light. Clean then dirt. Crimson and blue.  
This mind was a palace and its owner was aware of that.  
Behind the first door was a childhood scene. A dark haired boy singing a young girl to sleep.  
"Čiūčia liūlia dukrytėla  
Mano mylimoji  
Kiek jau kartų per dienelį..."  
Hermione could not translate the words but she knew what they meant. They were innocence, companionship, and a life now lost. That was literal, for behind the next door was the boy holding his sister, but now she would never wake up. Then he held a bowl that contained her - a part of her, at least.  
  
That started the chain of memories which led to the present. The orphanage, starvation, homelessness. Death and desire and delight. One chest emptied to fill another.  
  
For all the hearts Hannibal consumed, not a single one was worn on his sleeve. Everything lay deeply embedded in a bloody timeline stitched together with surgical thread. Only one man was exempt of his detachment. Only one man could see a glimpse of his feeling.  
  
Will Graham sat on a wicker chair in a cathedral. His hair was combed and coat brushed: a man perfectly groomed. There was a feeling of future there. Florence was a place Hannibal hoped to take Will.  
Despite the dark secret Hannibal held, the room of Will was filled with peace and trust. Irregardless of how she moved about Will, he stayed serene and still. Far calmer than she had ever seen him to be in reality.  
  
When Hermione moved on and found the body in the adjacent room, she realised who Hannibal was. Organs missing in an exact display of superiority. Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper.  
  
And Hermione was his next victim.  
  
Out, out, out. She scrambled up the passage of his mind towards daylight. _ Barely able to catch her breath. He lunged forwards. Up, over, down. Arm outstretched, hand grasping to her. Quick, quick, she pointed her wand to him.  
  
"Petrificus Totalus!" Hannibal fell forward, still. She gasped as the heavy weight crushed her. It was dead weight though. He was frozen. She cried, pushing him to the floor.  
"Oh Merlin, oh..." Hermione pulled her knees to her chest and struggled to stop the rapid breaths rising sharply. On the floor in front of her was the folded figure of the man who wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill her. Hannibal wanted to kill her.  
  
She couldn't go home. Luna, Neville, Tommy - they'd all be in danger of she did. Nor could she go to Lisa - Freddie would have a field day over that. Hermione didn't fancy seeing herself on every newspaper stand again. Of everyone in America, there was only one other person she could think to ask for help.  
  
"Pick up, pick up," she begged but it went through to answerphone.  
"This is Will Graham, please leave a message after the tone."  
"Will, it's Hermione. Hannibal tried to - well he didn't really but he- he wanted to. To hurt me Will. I don't- I need- I don't know what to do. You know him so I need your help. Please- you must- know... No. No, I'll- I'll speak to you later."  
  
Seconds trickled by. She'd performed magic on a Muggle. She'd done it twice now, if she could trust the accounts and her memory of the night prior.  
The Muggles had tried to kill her. Why? Why did it always happen to them, to her? _Why is it always you three._ Now she didn't know who else to call. Whoever she chooses to phone would be in danger. Perhaps it would be safer to talk with Hannibal first.  
  
With a steadying breath, Hermione faced the man on the floor and levitated him into his office chair. Having bound him securely, she reversed the spell immobilising him. For a moment he remained just as still. Then, like a snake dislocating it's jaw, he stretched his mouth open and neck around, stiff from the curse. Once he was finished, Hermione spoke.  
"Hannibal."  
"Miss Granger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby is from Lithuania and is entitled: 'Hush-a-bye, my little daughter.'


	10. Ghosts are Real Too

_'Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.'_ \- Stephen King

* * *

 "I thought you couldn't perform magic in front of me.”  
"It was in defence, so should be permissible in court." Hannibal seemed amused. It was as if he was proud that she felt the need to defend herself.  
"I became aware of your intentions. Then I read your mind; Walked the corridors of your palace and found my way into sheltered rooms."  
"What did you see?"  
"A girl - your sister? - killed. You... Ate her. Then others. Many have died to fit your appetite." Hannibal raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.  
"Don't pretend it is untrue," Hermione scolded, "because I know it to be perfectly certain. You are the Chesapeake Ripper. You killed all those poor people, treating others as if they are animals raised to feed you."  
  
After a moments consideration, Hannibal answered-  
"Children are generally not raised to be pigs, but they often become them. A child cannot be blamed for its sins. An adult is fully accountable. If someone acts like swine then my actions are in justice."  
" _Acts like swine_?"  
"Manners are something belonging to humans. So, whenever possible, I endeavour to eat the rude."  
"Sometimes people are rude because they're having a bad day. You cannot kill someone for one wrongdoing! That is not fair!"  
"You would sentence a murderer on the basis of a few minutes of sin."  
"That is different. Murder is not comparable to forgetting to say thank you, or not holding a door."  
"A wrong is a wrong, Miss Granger."  
"No, no, you- ah," Hermione cried, pulling away to calm herself.  
"I can suggest to you some effective methods to relieve stress," interjected Hannibal. Hermione groaned and turned to him. Now he was smirking. Proud of his teasing and twisting and tormenting. He'd accomplished that in a short matter of minutes.  
  
"Did the-"  
"Are you jealous?" interrupted Hermione.  
"Of your magic?"  
"No, of my friendship with Will."  
"I'm not supportive," replied Hannibal.  
"So... You're jealous?" Hannibal frowned, the dark gaze glowing in his eyes. That confirmed her suspicion.  
"Why did you invite me to the crime scene? You could've had Will to yourself, yet you brought me along."  
"I thought it would be therapeutic."  
"You just wanted to push me into traumatic memories and see what would happen," accused Hermione.  
"It was a form of exposure therapy. As someone who does not object to unorthodox treatments, I'm surprised you're against the method."  
"Surely the participant should be aware of the fact it is exposure therapy before it happens. Otherwise, it's unethical."  
"Ethics are subjective. The treatment was successful, so-"  
"Successful," she cried, "that's the worst episode I've had in months!"  
"Your ability to confront situations," explained Hannibal, "is what has improved. Despite negative experiences, you returned. By your report, too, you've been experiencing reduced anxiety and agitation between sessions."  
  
Hermione sniffed, walking away from him and over to his desk. Hannibal's eyes followed her as if locked on, though she tried to ignore their potency.  
"Will is returning soon," she said, leaning on the desk and looking back at him.  
"Indeed so," affirmed Hannibal.  
“You’re not concerned.”  
“Should I be?” Hermione frowned, and shook her head.  
“Does he know?” Hannibal sat silent, not answering the question. Hermione fingered the hem of her shirt, hoping that surely he did not. Surely, Will was not in accordance with this aspect of Hannibal.  
  
When Will arrived half an hour later, he paused at the entrance to the room. Although surprised, it was not that remarkable that such a situation should occur - he knew well that Hannibal had a habit of making enemies.  
"You alright?" he asked. Neither Hannibal or Hermione were quite sure who he addressed. Will walked across the room, offering Hermione a reassuring smile. When he reached Hannibal's chair, he stopped and, placing a hand on his shoulder, asked-  
"Shall I make us all a cup of tea?"  
  
Hannibal and Will shared a look of gentle contentment, and Hermione growled at the pair of them.  
"No, no, not another cup from him," she remarked.  
"I'm making it," insisted Will, walking across the room. Seeing he was leaving, Hermione quickly followed.  
"Will!" she called.  
"I'm assuming this is about the whole magic thing," he returned, still walking in front of her.  
"How do you..."  
"You knocked out Elizabeth Orson last night, and I'm certain you didn't use your hands." Hermione paused her walking, and nibbled at her lip.  
  
"I hope you're not in trouble for it," he shouted. Hermione hurried after him, sliding to a stop when she saw they were at the kitchen.  
"I certainly will be," she admitted.  
"And I guess Hannibal is tied up with some spell or something in there?"  
"Body bind curse, yes." Will filled three mugs with hot water, chuckling to himself.  
"Are you not concerned? Surprised?" Hermione stepped forwards. "You found out I have magic, Hannibal is tied to a chair and you are making tea!"  
"I'm a good judge of character," he reminded her.  
"Right," she replied, scratching at her head. "Right." Hermione returned to the office, finding Hannibal both idle and attentive as he sat, fixed in place.  
  
"How am I not terrified out of my mind? This is all so ludicrous!"  
"Humour is a-"  
"It was a rhetorical question," she hissed. Evidently the anger wasn't gone.  
"So," called Will as he walked from the kitchen to the office, "what happened?"  
"He tried- tried to... Kill me? I'm not sure. I..." Hermione trailed off, looking to Hannibal. Will frowned.  
"He... You know he's the Chesapeke Ripper, right?" Will took a sip of his tea, and Hermione blew over hers. Hannibal glanced to his mug - it seemed it would have to be cold, since his limbs were all held tightly in place by the spell.  
  
"Yep," muttered Will, teeth held still together in a gritted smile. Hermione snickered, knocking tea to the floor.  
"Oh Merlin, what, you..." She closed her eyes and held a hand to a forehead. "Is this real? Because it's mad."  
"Drink your tea," encouraged Will, kind yet completely untrustworthy. All the same, Hermione found the hot drink was exactly what she needed to calm her flittering brain.  
  
"I'm calling the FBI."  
"They know," said Will. "Besides, if you were truly going to call them, why have you waited until now?"  
"I... Wanted an outside perspective," admitted Hermione. "To check this isn't all in my head."  
"Trust me... It's very real," he smiled. Drinking steadily, Hermione finished her tea and placed her mug firmly on the counter. Hannibal glared at her.  
"Hardly rude Hannibal," scolded Will playfully.  
  
"No it... It..." Hermione mumbled. All of a sudden, she felt rather dizzy. Again, things slowly seeped to black. As she drifted away, she heard Hannibal asking "in the tea?", to which Will responded "of course." Then their voices faded out.


End file.
